Mirror Me
by H.E. Gray
Summary: Harry Potter goes into the last battle, fully expecting to die – and he does. What he doesn’t expect, however, is to wake up the next morning… Violence and strong language. ON HOLD.
1. Prologue

**Summary: **A suicide mission manages to win the war for a twenty-year-old Harry Potter, even if he _does_ die in the attempt. For some reason though, he doesn't seem as dead as he should be – and the world he's woken up in has more than enough of its own problems.

**Warnings: **Violence, bad language, abuse of the Latin language and excessive use of OCs.

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognise isn't mine. Anything you _don't_ is mine. On that note – I'm willing to let you use any of my characters if you ask and have back stories for quite a few, if anyone's bored and looking to write anything about an OC. -charming smile-

**Author's Note: **So, the new prologue's up and chapter one should be done in a week or two. Looking for a beta – if anyone's interested, message me? Reviews are appreciated, and questions, etc, welcomed. Thanks to everyone who answered my questions – it was all taken into account.

* * *

**Mirror Me: Prologue

* * *

**

"I can't breathe," Zabini said in a conversational tone, his face drawn and tight as he swayed beside Harry. The magic in the Great Hall was uncomfortable, Harry thought muzzily, so thick it was almost tangible, scraping over skin and lips, ripping the breath away from your mouth, so you'd think you were dying in a whirlwind of magic.

"Do us all a favour-" Felding ground out, her jaw clenched as she steadied herself against the stone walls, "-and shut up Zabini. I couldn't give a fuck if you can breathe-" She paused, inhaled roughly, her eyes screwed closed in concentration, "-or not."

Jacobs let out a choking half-sob, shaking in a ball on the ground. "Modi, fill us with your strength," Harry could hear him muttering to himself. "Let loose the valkyrie, follow the hounds, follow-"

Felding snarled incomprehensibly at him, and Harry met her eyes warningly. She threw a bitter look his way, and then laughed, her voice rough. "When's the goddamn-" Pause, and a staggered breath, "-ritual over?" she demanded, and stumbled as a particular harsh buffet of magic knocked into her.

"Soon," Harry said, his knuckles white – but he refused to flinch, even as streams of red slashed across his face, even as he felt the blood being blown sideways across his cheeks. "Very soon."

"Are you so eager to run to your death, Felding?" Jacobs choked out, and then he let out a hysterical laugh. "Oh Modi, hear me, hear my prayers, hear-"

"Shut _up_, you fucking berserker," Felding growled, and Harry wanted to order at _her_ to shut up; weren't tensions already running high enough without her trying to pick fights? He knew what she was feeling though, could sense his own helplessness twisting in his stomach, going against his every instincts, and it had to be worse for her as a werewolf. He wanted to be out there fighting, facing the Death Eaters, but instead they'd formulated some goddamn _trap_, some deal with a bloody demon of all things, and one who had looked at him with a very odd expression on his face-

"Ready Potter?" Flint said from somewhere nearby, his troll-like face sneering down at him, and Harry felt tense shoulders relax slightly as the magic flickered out as if it had never been there, only leaving a traced circle in the middle of the room, faint outlines of blood, and all they'd have to do now is set it off…

Harry shook his head slightly, rubbed calloused fingers over his wand-holster, felt the adrenalin begin to pound in his veins. "Now?" he said, and there was no disguising the _finally_, the desperation to go and _do_ something-

"Now," Flint nodded, turning his back to find the nine members of his own squad. "Move out!" he bellowed, and Harry echoed the order, seeing Jacobs stop his sobbing, jerk as if he were _possessed_, and rise to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes almost red with fury and battle-lust, Zabini shudder and turn away from staring at where the centre of the whirling, scratching magic had been just seconds ago, Felding let out a breath of what could only be relief, running her tongue over her teeth as her mouth stretched into a wicked grin, Abbott, Kerr, Tonks, Bailey…

Sprawling out of the hall like bloody drunken _pirates_, Flint already having claimed the east and Moody staggering off to the north, Charlie Weasley meeting his eyes before moving to the south, that only meant-

West. Back to the old Gryffindor tower then.

* * *

_Left, left, that's it Jonathon, come on now, just a few more steps-_

Snow crunched under his feet, and Jonathon felt shivers wrack through his body, cascading through the thin robes he wore. His feet were bare, his face pale and exhausted, wan with tiredness as he stretched out a trembling hand.

An icy wind blew past, and he clambered over the ruins of what had been a wall, his numb fingers scrabbling at the rough-edged bricks, and he stopped, froze, his grey eyes widening and staring off into the distance, _not again, please, please not again, no, no, no-_

_-Jonathon!_

"'m listening, 'm listening," the boy whispered in a cracking voice, hoarse and husky as a shaking sob forced its way out of him, "Odin save me."

_Sh, sh, sh, just move forward Jonathon._

Jonathon shivered violently and softly incanted a warming charm again – it had no more effect than it had before; strengthening the blood flow for a moment before dropping away, leaving pins and needles prickling all over. He raised a hand to his mouth and blew on it, brushed dirty, ragged strands of blond hair out of his face and swayed on the spot.

_Jonathon, move forward!_

He took an uncertain step; winced more out of habit than any pain as his numb foot knocked against a stone sticking out sharply. Stepped forward again, and again, and when he looked back his footprint was bloody against the clean snow. Red on white. Red on white. Redonwhiteredonwhiteredonwhite-

_Don't look back Jonathon. _

Too late, he wanted to scream. Too late, it was always too late. His father was too late, his brother was too late, and He- and He- It had hurt so-

_Don't look back Jonathon._

No. No, he wouldn't look back. Straightened his back, tried to look the person his father had made him, before It had happened. Two years ago – was it two years ago? He'd been how old? Numbers didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything, and he _was looking back, stop it, you fool._

_Come on Jonathon, just move forward. You're nearly there._

Where's there? He wanted to scream. Who are you, what am I doing? Fourteen, something said, and he cocked his head, pausing. Fourteen what? He'd been fourteen when It had happened. Fourteen. What was fourteen? There were the smashed remains of a mirror lying on the ground, a gilt frame with the imprint of rised still present. Looked down, saw his reflection looking back. He was almost pretty in the snow, a fae child, half-starved, half-dead and pretty in his death. Paint a picture, title splayed underneath 'Snow White'. He snickered to himself, neatened his hair with his fingers. 

_Keep moving Jonathon._

He took another step forward.

* * *

"Double up," Harry ordered, his eyes narrowed and calculating. He could hear the explosions shaking the walls, had the squad positioned around where those bastards would break through. Guerrilla warfare. Had to lure them in- lure Voldemort in. He wouldn't resist a chance to gloat-

"Got your back, sir," Zabini said sliding into place, his arm brushing Harry's, before snatching it back and giving him a wary look, as if he expected his squad leader to go mental on him. Harry ignored him, scanned the rest of his squad, a slight frown on his face-

"Felding, Jacobs, pair up," he snapped, and the two moved forward – they'd be the hard-hitters; probably die in the initial outpour, but they were good and they knew they were good. Felding laughed softly, husky warning, at something Jacobs had said, no longer so aggressive now that she was out of the tense ritual and back where she belonged.

"Everyone else, back and split up in the corridors. Make sure they see you when you retreat." He could feel his breath becoming more ragged, excitement rushing in his veins as another explosion rocked the castle. No fucking demon here, no elaborate traps and blood rituals, just him and his squad, and Death Eaters waiting to die-

He nodded to Zabini, and they both slipped back into a passageway, a portrait watching them with raised eyebrows, before moving away with a squeak as she took in the glower Harry sent her way. Zabini muffled a snicker beside him, trying to relax, but his face was pale and sickly-

"_Why are you here Zabini?" he had asked, and Zabini straightened defiantly, but flinched as he met Harry's eyes._

"_I plead temporary insanity," the black boy had said, trying to crack a smirk, and Harry had smiled._

"_Temporary insanity's no good in this squad, Zabini. You need to-"_

"-Go the whole way," Zabini muttered to himself, and his wand was in his hand. "Never thought I'd be willing to die for-"

Another explosion, and Zabini changed his mind over what he was saying, offered Harry a faint, grim smile. _Protego, caeco, comburo, concido, sectumsempra… _Harry twirled his wand, leaned against the wall, and his eyes glowed with suppressed emotion. Be calm, be cold, save the fury for battle but remember-

"Lead them back to the Hall," he breathed, and Zabini nodded jerkily. "We can't get caught up in the fighting. Whoever falls-"

"Get back," Zabini finished. "I know. The squad knows. We're not going to fail."

"Good," Harry said, and then another explosion echoed through the air, louder than any of the others, followed by the cracking sound of walls collapsing bit by bit-

"Ready," Harry murmured. "Ready…"

* * *

_This used to be Hogwarts. No, turn right here._

Hogwarts? He'd heard of Hogwarts; dead, defeated, just like Albus Dumbledore-

Albus isn't dead. Another step Jonathon. Everyone who faced Him died. Everyone who defied him was punished. His feet hurt now, even if his left foot had stopped bleeding, and he didn't want to do what the Voice said. He'd left his home, left the people that had looked after him – oh Heimdall protect him, what would Alex think, and his father, and the rest, who had helped him when- when- No, don't think about that. Nononono. Take a step, just like the Voice said. The Voice said it would stop hurting soon, that everything would stop hurting and he'd stop seeing those- those Things, with the eyes and the smiles that never touch their faces, just felt like they were smiling inside, watching him with too-eager eyes, waiting for him to fall, but he didn't want to fall, he didn't- 

It would all stop soon. It would all be alright. He could go back to Alex, and he could go back to Blaise, and the others who loved him and looked after him even though he was insane-

-Was he insane? No, no, it was everyone else, they just didn't _understand_ the things he saw, and how they haunted his every step, how they knew who he was, _what_ he was, inside out. His hand trembled, and he bit his lip, but it was so cold that he couldn't even feel it.

_Now left Jonathon. Just keep on following the stones._

Had these once been passageways? Corridors? He saw a portrait lying, broken on the ground – of no worth to those who had raided it, those who had overcome the weak- the weak- He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember a lot of things, except a face, like his, but old and tired, and another face, determined and passionate, but they hadn't come, they hadn't done anything, they had watched him scream behind the masks, and he'd _known _who they were, and he thought he could see the pain in his father's eyes-

His father? Yes, the first face was his father, but his father had laughed, and smirked, and been so proud of him, been so proud of Alex, and that- so _tired_-

_Just another step Jonathon. Just a step at a time._

He stumbled forward, caught hold of one of the ruined walls and pushed himself up again. He was so _cold_, and he had a room in the Vidar Squadron's quarters, his own room, and Jonathon had painted a griffin on the wall, and none of the others had been able to guess what it was, except Luna, Loony, who saw things just like he did-

_You're here, Jonathon._

Where's here?

* * *

There were shouts up ahead, where Felding and Jacobs were; curses and screams filling the air, and Harry could hear Felding laugh-

"Sir?" Zabini asked, tensed on the balls on his feet. "Should we-?"

"No," Harry said, and Zabini signed out to Tonks, who signed down to Bailey, signed on-

They knew how to work, and they knew- they were ready-

Felding was retreating down the hall, backed down, darted into the corridor Harry and Zabini were, and there was blood trickling down her face; she cuffed at it irritably, snarled, looked at Harry, and there was more blood on her teeth and how did it get _there_-

"Jacobs is dead, sir," she grunted, and Harry nodded slightly.

"Get back then – alright on your own?"

Felding shrugged, stepped out of the corridor to move backwards, and-

Blood spattering across the floor, warm grey brain smashed in the remnants of a crushed skull, and she hadn't even had time for a yell of agony, didn't even notice the curse-

Harry rolled out, aimed up; _concido_ and the Death Eater fell, faceless behind a mask-

Zabini yelled a _'protego_' and purple light flashed harmlessly against a newly raised barrier, sparks leaping off scorching a painting, and the monk who had been watching with morbid interest gave a shout, fleeing as the canvas began to boil and spit-

_Frango _and the crack of breaking bones was eerily loud, only overcome by the bubbling scream coming from a black mask, cut off as his neck twisted and snapped-

There were more advancing though, and Harry raised his hand in a signal, and then he and Zabini were moving together, flinging themselves behind a suit of armour, and then further back, into a corridor. Their feet slapped against the floor, and they rounded back, fell headlong down a set of stairs before they could move; he could hear the taunting shout of Tonks, somewhere off to his right, Bailey – it had to be Bailey, he was the only one who used the earthquake curse, and Harry could feel the bloody floor _shaking_ – forward, aiming for the second set of stairs-

A shout as a group – a murder, they called them now; 'a murder of Death Eaters' – caught sight of Harry and Zabini, but the stairs had moved and they couldn't get across. One tried to levitate across, but her spell failed halfway and her scream seemed to go on for an eternity before it cut off.

Zabini raised a hand and waved, and Harry didn't have to look to know the Slytherin was smirking. They took a few steps back, and then Zabini cast a blinding light charm that let them vanish into another passageway, wait there as the Death Eaters swore and cursed, but the stairs were beginning to grind again, moving backwards, and there wasn't much time-

The stairs snapped into place, and the Death Eaters began to move, but Tonks was behind them, throwing a fireball; she'd got into a dead end from the looks of it, and Abbott was limping, his leg dragging behind him, but a Death Eater turned, snarled something, and Abbots was flung back against the banisters, spine cracking-

"Back," Harry commanded, and he tried not to wince as Tonks collapsed; he couldn't see what happened, and she was his _friend_ for fuck's sake-

No. "Back," he said again, and Zabini stumbled backwards, his breath ragged. Not far from the Great Hall now, and he could hear the shouts of the rest of his squad, as the stairs met up again with the passageway ahead.

Not far now.

* * *

It looked as though it was a hall of some sort; the walls were crumbling, but they stretched out widely, no passageways, and Jonathon closed his eyes as _a black-haired boy laughed, sitting next to someone who could be his brother. Beside them, a small blond boy was charming his food to dance, before nudging the other two, and they cracked up as his sausage bounced away onto a red-haired girl's plate. "Wicked, Peter," one of the boys exclaimed, and the blond blushed slightly, but there was a smug smile on his face-_

_The Great Hall _the Voice said, and Jonathon wondered if this was supposed to make some sort of sense to him, because it didn't, but he nodded anyway, shivered as a gust of wind blew by. He moved over to the centre, and he could swear that it was warm or something and his feet pattered against grass, actual grass, not cold snow, but in the centre there was just a clear patch of dust, solid, heavy dust-

_You have to make a circle Jonathon_

But how was he supposed to do that? He didn't have anything on him but a knife, and you couldn't make a circle with a knife, unless you just drew it, and actually that would sort of make sense. He tugged the knife out from underneath his robe, and knelt down on the ground – shivered again. Inserted the point into the dust, and dragged, and then he was drawing a circle, but bending down like this made his back hurt, and it was _cold_ and why was he drawing a _circle_ in the middle of a ruin?

"Circle, circle," he muttered to himself, and then snickered softly. He finished the wavery circle he had made, looked at it proudly, then frowned. It wasn't pretty, like his griffin had been, or his dragon or the stars and the universe and the everything he had tried to show people. It was boring and boring and oh Odin, the Eyes were there again, and they were looking at him, whatwashegoingto-

_Jonathon. Don't step out of the circle._

Maybe it was a magical circle. It would protect him, and-

He drew out his wand, and muttered a few nonsense words, his forehead drawn into a frown. No, no, it wasn't magic, because if it was magic it would have _glowed_, and it didn't, and the new spells Jonathon made up always worked, whatever Mik had grumbled about insane brats-

_Cut your hand Jonathon._

"Why?" he whined. "That'd- That'd hurt, 'n, 'n, I don't-"

It won't hurt Jonathon. Don't you trust me? 

_Did _he trust the Voice? It had helped him run away from those big spider things, and had told him how to stop the tree from hitting him, and- and-

Nervously, shaking with more than just cold now, Jonathon raised the knife to his hand, saw the dust marring the gleaming surface. The Voice said cut, the Voice said cut-

The knife bit down, but the Voice _had_ been right, and it didn't hurt – the cold had numbed his hand, and all he felt was the sharp pangs of pins and needles for brief seconds, before it faded away. He stared at the bright scarlet of the blood in awe, cupped his hand to keep it from flowing out onto the ground.

_Drip it onto the circle Jonathon._

And this was _Blood Magic_ and Blood Magic was _bad_, but he did it anyway, watching the drops patter down onto the ground, staining it dark. "Wh-" Jonathon began, bit his lip, tried again. "What now?"

_We wait.

* * *

_

Nearly there, Harry thought, and ducked as a curse flew over his head. Bailey and Kerr had joined up; Landon and Franz were dead, and no one was sure what had happened to Yates or Tanner. Dead probably – no one would stop to take prisoners in a battle, not until the end.

He growled as he saw a blond head – Malfoy, not even bothering to wear his goddamn mask as he shouted some order at someone – and Kerr saw the direction of his gaze, smirked nastily, and then Malfoy's head was flying backwards and Harry almost had to bite back a look at the priceless expression-

They skipped a few steps backwards; threw a fireball, and then they were scattering, Kerr and Zabini determinedly holding a shield as Harry and Bailey took out a few more. From the sounds of it, Flint's lot were already there – Harry chanced a look back, and yes, they were, and he could see Charlie Weasley there, his eye a mess, looked as though he was blind in his left eye, but it didn't really matter now-

Moody- no, it wasn't Moody, but one in his squad, seemed like Moody had been taken down, and there at the back of the Hall, advancing in his black robes, edged in silver, surrounded by the Red Guard, the elite Death Eaters, was Voldemort.

"You're late," Flint snarled as Harry backed off to the centre, and Harry shrugged slightly, firing off a nasty hex.

"Sorry, got a bit caught up on the stairs," he said dryly, and Kerr let out a choking yell as a spell slipped past his shield, engulfing his wand arm in flames.

"Doesn't matter. It's time to end it now, anyway," Flint muttered, and let out a grunting laugh as he managed to fire off a boiling curse, and Harry looked at him, "-Smith. Always hated the bastard. You know the trigger?"

"Yeah," Harry said, and with a grimace of distaste, he stepped back into the circle the ritual had formed, saw the glowing lines of emerald – _green and silver_ of all things, did that bloody demon have a sense of humour? Voldemort was stepping forward, a smug look on his snake face, and Harry grinned faintly at the absence of Nagini – they'd killed the bloody snake, wiped out all of the horcruxes; but Voldemort didn't know that Fred had destroyed the last one, if he did then he wouldn't be here-

"You have lost, Potter," Voldemort's voice carried across the fighting, and one by one the Death Eaters stopped their spells, and the aurors withdrew slightly, to stand around Harry in a protective circle. "Your prophecy is nothing but a dream. _You have lost_."

Harry stood taller, squaring his shoulders and looked wry. "Is this the part where you offer me a final duel, to prove that you're better than me, once and for all?"

Voldemort laughed, high and cold. "Do you think me a fool, boy? No, you will die. I have no need to-"

"He doesn't ever shut up, does he?" Zabini murmured quietly, and the remnants of the squads laughed huskily. Flint raised an eyebrow, his troll-like face drawn into a nasty smirk.

"Potter?"

Voldemort didn't seem to have noticed they weren't paying attention to his gloating victory speech, and with a deep breath, he spoke. "_For those who died._"

And the roof began to fall.

Huge cracks spread across the ceiling, chunks of rocks dislodging themselves. The enchantments flickered, failing, and Harry fancied it was almost as if the sky itself were falling. He saw some Death Eaters try to raise shields, only to find they couldn't – the Anti-Apparation ward had come down around them, blocking magic for a crucial few minutes, and there were shouts of panic beginning to spread-

"Potter! What-?" Voldemort shouted, a look of terrified comprehension coming over his face even as he turned to run, but the corridors of Hogwarts were collapsing and the very foundations were shuddering, the magic that bound the school writhing out of control-

"Ended it, Riddle!" Harry shouted. "We've ended it."

A stone lodged itself in Kerr's skull, Zabini collapsed, crushed under a rock and a hint of blue sky settling over his face, Bailey, dead, but he saw Voldemort fall and that was all that mattered, but his scar, his _fucking _scar-

Harry collapsed, his wand still in his hand, as something struck him from behind, and his scar felt like it was on fire, blood running down his face, splashing onto the floor, across the burning lines of magic-

* * *

Jonathon's body convulsed, a scream building in his throat because it hurt, oh _Heimdall_ it hurt, and the Voice had _lied_ and-

* * *

"_Aberforth, what have you done?_" Albus Dumbledore roared.

* * *

**Modi **– Norse God of battle wrath; the leader of the berserkers

**Odin **– Chief God of the Aesir

**Heimdall **– Norse God of light and protection.

**Vidar Squadron **– Points to anyone who guesses the primary purpose of this squad.


	2. Headfirst into Hel

**Summary: **A suicide mission manages to win the war for a twenty-year-old Harry Potter, even if he _does_ die in the attempt. For some reason though, he doesn't seem as dead as he should be – and the world he's woken up in has more than enough of its own problems.

**Warnings: **Violence, excessive amounts pf bad language, abuse of the Latin language and overuse of OCs.

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognise isn't mine. Anything you _don't_ is mine. On that note – I'm willing to let you use any of my characters if you ask and have back stories for quite a few, if anyone's bored and looking to write anything about an OC. -charming smile-

**Author's Note: **New Chapter One is up – taking quite a diversion from the old one, although you may recognise some elements. Still looking for a beta. Reviews and/or constructive criticismis much appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter One: Headfirst into Hel**

_Dedicated to 'Spair. Sorry this isn't quite your 6,666 words – I'll do my best with the next chapter.

* * *

_

It was cold, when Harry began to move; so cold, that it felt like his bones were aching, freezing inside of him as he trembled unconsciously. Maybe the wizards were right, he thought. Maybe this was their Hel, cold enough to make a grown man cry, where the serpent Nithog chewed on the roots of Yggdrasil – and Harry slowly opened his eyes, moved his limbs from the awkward position they had fallen in. There was something wrong here, but it was more of a nagging feeling than any knowledge of the matter.

He pushed himself up, hands scrabbling against hard-packed ground, and shivered as he saw the snow that lay thickly scattered, not two metres away – strange, that where he was standing was the only patch of ground without a covering of snow. He finally got up, swaying slightly, uncertainly, and he could feel his feet scrape across dirt, bare and dirty. No shoes – someone wasn't too happy with him, he thought wryly, and a shudder wracked his body as the wind picked up, piercing through the threadbare robes he wore with contemptuous ease. Goddamnit, it was cold. Felt like the Elivagar were all meeting here, or something, and there was no Muspelheim to warm them – and look at that, he had picked something up of wizarding culture. Bloody Norse mythology.

Feeling for his wand, Harry pulled a long, thin stick out and stared at it with faint bewilderment crossing his face. It wasn't his wand – and he filed that under his tentative doubts that twitched at the back of his mind. It was made of some kind of black wood; properly made from the silky feel of the wood, but it hadn't been polished for months and there were chips and dents in the handle. Well-used, and it fit his hand as if made for it. Shrugging slightly – nothing ventured, nothing gained – he waved it, and a pleasantly warm feeling cascaded through his hand as a few green and gold sparks shot out. Sparks implied a fire creature in the core, but Harry doubted it was a phoenix feather. Dragon heartstring, maybe? Either way, it was a nice surprise. Most wands reacted badly with him.

Harry cast a warming charm, sighing in relief when heat slowly began to filter through his body, his sluggish blood flow speeding up. He clenched his fists slightly, rubbing his fingers to allow the charm to work more effectively, as he placed his wand back in his pocket. Now he'd be able to think this over properly, without being distracted by the cold.

He looked around, automatically checking for any cover he might find in a battle – a couple of ruined walls, but the remnants of the walls weren't large enough to duck behind really. They were jagged, melted black in some places, and completely destroyed in others. From the looks of it, he was standing in the middle of what had been a large room, before some kind of explosion had taken place…

Harry frowned, suspicions pestering him, and closed his eyes to try and visualise properly. Now, imagine he was where he'd been standing when he'd- he'd died. The Gryffindor table would be over _there_, ten paces and to the east – and yes, the room was big enough to encompass that. The Slytherin table would be twenty paces west, and then two paces down from there, there should be a hole no larger than a hand span wide, but a good few metres down, where one of the Founders had put the grounding marker for the anti-apparation ward. Harry opened his eyes to find that the snow covered all visible evidence of the hole (nice to know that his warming charm had been strong enough to stop him from even _feeling_ the snow, he thought smugly), and with a wave of his wand, he cleared the snow away.

There was the hole, but from the _look _of it, with the sides too smooth and the whole thing just too intact overall-

Harry cast a muttered _detego_, jabbing his wand viciously, and nothing happened. Bugger. He'd miscast the spell _again_. He'd driven Flitwick _mad_ with his inability to learn that charm. With an exasperated growl, he tried once more, moving his wand very deliberately and – oh yeah, it was the twist at the end of the movement that made it work, something to do with the key and lock-

A light cerulean blue hovered over the hole, almost blindingly strong as it pulsed, as if a heart beat, sending out waves of colour that slowly dissipated into the surroundings. That meant that the wards… were still up. And that didn't make any sense whatsoever, because they had damn well been destroyed. He'd fucking _seen_ them fall.

Harry drew back slightly, twirling the wand over and over in his fingers; a nervous habit that he really needed to stop. Given up chewing on his fingernails, starting up more dangerous habits instead. He'd managed to set Tonks' hair on fire last time. A week or two ago? She hadn't been amused in the slightest, but respect for a senior officer had stopped her from doing more than just grumble malevolent curses under her breath, and then grown it back a neon green. He loved having authority, especially when it meant people couldn't take him down for his idiocy. He could almost see why the moron Fudge had tried to stay in power for so long. Thank God he'd died a couple of years ago, before the war had really started. He'd tried to interfere with what Rufus Scrimgeour had been doing, and the new Minister hadn't been happy with that.

Dragging his mind back to the problem at hand, Harry grimaced slightly. Think about it logically. Maybe the building he was standing in was just a transference over into Hel? He didn't exactly know what happened when you were dead, after all, and it might just be his surroundings when he died were imprinted on the landscape around him. But if that was the matter, where was everyone else? He knew loads of people had died; at least fifty aurors, and there had been ten times that number of Death Eaters, Voldemort among them. Here… He was the only one around. If the Valkyrie had taken them to Valhalla, then why was he the only one not there? It just didn't make sense. And it definitely didn't make sense that the anti-apparation ward was still up.

When had anything ever made sense, though?

He blew out a breath irritably, scraped a dirty strand of hair out of his eyes-

Wait-just-one-_fucking_-second. His hair wasn't long enough to fall into his eyes. He'd had a bloody army cut, shaved it all down, and it couldn't have grown more than an inch in the past month. He pulled a lock of hair down, went cross-eyed trying to see it, and was rewarded by the blurring shape of- of _blond_ hair. Dirty, greasy blond hair, unwashed for who-knew how long, but blond nevertheless.

What the fuck was going on?

"_Ostendo ipse_," he muttered, flicking his wand and focusing clearly. Slowly, an image began to form, waves of magic coalescing to show a boy staring back at him. Grey eyes narrowed in concentration, face pale and slightly gaunt, blond hair falling down in thick, knotted tangles, almost down to his chin. Thin and underfed, quite short, but in a way that suggest he'd have a growth spurt later on in life, and that he simply hadn't been eating for a couple of days. That could be fixed with a few potions, he found himself thinking with a detached awareness. The faint flicker of green around one wrist showed a tracking spell – all aurors had them on, so no one would suspect them of going Dark or anything-

Harry drew the arm of his robes back slightly, irritably, to try and give himself greater movement for the next spell – and froze as the image did the same, arms baring to reveal a criss-cross of pale white scars across the entire of his forearm. Disbelievingly, he glanced down and saw the evidence on his own pallid skin. Looked like the blood-boiling curse – but the image, the body he was in, couldn't be more than fifteen, maybe sixteen. Who'd-

War, he reminded himself. He'd killed fifteen year olds; intimidated others into telling him what he needed to know, and he'd been restricted by the Ministry laws. Voldemort and his lot hadn't had those restrictions, and sometimes… sometimes what they did made him doubt their humanity.

The power for the spell abruptly ended with a jolt, and the image dispelled, letting the figure of the boy collapse into a blurry mass of smoke, before whipping away in the wind. Harry shuddered, and recast the warming charm over himself. At this rate he'd be running out of magic in a few hours, and it'd take at least a day or two for his source to produce more. It was time to shift this mystery to the back of his mind; he needed to find cover. Hogwarts' dungeons might still be in one piece, even if-

He looked around, and shook his head. It _looked_ like… like the place where he had died, but the ruins were old – the sharp cracks of the walls were worn with age, and a few hardy mosses were growing in some places. They had to be at least twenty years old, and Hogwarts had been destroyed today, yesterday, whenever-

Harry felt his mouth twitch slightly. Maybe he'd done a Rip Van Winkle, fallen asleep for however many years. It wasn't funny, but, somehow, it _was_.

The smile faded abruptly from his face as he felt a nagging presence pushing at the back of his mind – someone was trying to get in; legilimancy. Harry felt his blood run cold as he tried to reinforce the walls of his mind, think of nothing. He'd managed to get better at occlumency, but even so-

He sank down into his mind, sensing the reassuring walls of Azkaban rise up around him – in the years after the Dementors had joined Voldemort, Azkaban had been used as an auror base, and in many ways it had become home. The winding passageways and deceptive twists and turns slowly became a model for his mind, and it was only too easy to _twist_ there- just there- and force the intruder from his mind, leaving behind only the faintest traces of dingy green and clattering voices, that Harry attempted to chase only to see, out of the corner of his eye-

He let the intruder flee without a second thought, swivelling around to check his own fortifications, wondering what the _hell_ as the walls of Azkaban faded out into a corridor he'd never seen before in his life, crossed swords hanging above a brightly-burning torch, an empty portrait on the other wall. Moving closer, Harry brought his hand up to touch the painting, and froze, his heart thudding erratically as an image flashed onto it.

Looking around warily, he cast his senses out to check if this was some sort of trick, but he could find no magic swirling around his mind, no hints of meddling. He could sense… unfamiliar rooms present though, places that shouldn't be there, and a gaping, aching pain running through the middle of his mind, a thick crack indicating that someone had broken through there, with no concern for sanity.

The smart thing to do, Harry thought, would be to back out, get into some cover and then try to explore the new surroundings before probing into any memories. Harry had never been particularly smart however; he left that to Hermione and the multitude of Ravenclaws who practically _clamoured _for the epithet. He was a Gryffindor – and it was precisely that reason that he stretched out his hand again and touched the portrait, letting the memories (they had to be memories, he realised somehow) sweep across him again.

_Someone looks down on him, an annoyed look on their face as they realise he is awake. "You are a brat," the person said, and he blinked a few times, to make their blurry face come into focus in the semi-darkness of the room. _

_Male. Around sixteen years old, he reckons. Blond hair, blue eyes, looks a bit like the body he was in. The teenager talks again, trying to force a glower on his face and failing. "Do you know how much trouble you got me in with Dad, Jon? Seriously, couldn't you have just-"_

"_Lied?" Harry asks, his mouth moving of its own volition, and the voice that came out was the high-pitched one of a prepubescent boy. "Do you really think Dad would have fallen for it? You shouldn't have been so stupid."_

_The teenager – Alex, his mind provides; his brother – scowls, but before he can speak, Harry continues. "Like I said, Pansy can't keep her mouth shut, especially not about who she gets into bed with. You knew this'd happen, Alex."_

"_Yeah, but you didn't have to tell-"_

_There is a footstep outside, and Alex freezes. Harry can feel his own heart stop as he scuffles under the covers quickly, and then the door is creaking open-_

Harry stumbled back slightly, confused. The memory seemed _real_ and he'd been expecting – well, he didn't know what he'd been expecting. Leaning forward again-

_It is darker, and he is shivering uncontrollably. A man is holding onto his arm tightly, his grip almost painful, and Harry scowls at him. His heart is beating rapidly, and he can barely breathe, and the eyes that turn on him are strangely sympathetic._

"_Why I am here?" he asks, and his voice is lower now, but cracking with fear. The man doesn't answer; winces and turns away – but Harry knows why he is here. The Vidar squadron failed at a mission, and his father had been in charge of it. The Dark Lord does not like failure._

_There is a knocking noise, and then the door swings open, and the person standing there is not human. Harry can faintly recognise him as Rabastan Lestrange – something about the nose, and the jaw – but he is different. The person he is in the memory feels no surprise at the demonic visage Rabastan now bears – eyes ringed with yellow, tattoos inked across his face, claws extended from his knuckles, horns curling out from behind his ears and too many muscles to be entirely human. Instead, there is just the mindless fear radiating off him and he wants to cry, but is determined to be brave._

_The demon wrenches his arm, and he is forced to stumble after him. The man watches them go, and turns away abruptly even as Harry is forced outside, forced before the watching eyes of blank masks. Lestrange takes him to the centre of the circle, and then steps back to join a group of maybe fifteen others with the same demon eyes, varying only slightly in their appearances._

_Harry is left, standing in the centre as his blood rushes through his veins. He tries to keep his face calm, but there is defiance shaking over him. He is so scared though, and he cannot prevent the quivering exclamation of fear as the Dark Lord steps forward – and fucking hell, that is not Voldemort, he thinks in disbelief._

_It looks like the colour has been bleached out of him; white eyes, white hair, white face. He's some kind of bloody ice demon or something, Harry thinks – like the stories, but with the stories it's always an ice queen, and the Dark Lord is male. Otherwise it would be a Dark Lady, and that would just be weird. Girls always were too smart to try and take over the world, except for what's-her-name, back in the time of the Founders. Binns had tried to teach him about that, but he hadn't really been listening._

_For a second, he wonders whether this is Voldemort, but the long fingers are his, and the face shape is his. It is a young-looking Tom Riddle, twenty five, twenty six, maybe, before the horcruxes affected him, but it is definitely him. What has he done to himself though, to make him look like this? Harry wonders. He has a nasty feeling that Voldemort has become a good deal more powerful, and he doesn't like the look of those other demons either._

_He cannot think any more however, because Voldemort turns to the mass of Death Eaters, and gestures someone forward. Dad, his mind says, but Harry thinks that the eyes behind the mask are already too detached, as if trying to wish himself away from this place._

_Voldemort smiles, and it is an eerie sight – but Harry is not thinking about that, for the Dark Lord speaks then, and his voice is that of the boy Harry had heard in the diary, in his second year. Instead he finds the shivers wracking through his body will not stop, and a helpless, incapacitating fear has seized his limbs._

"_Vidar Squadron failed me, Rosier," Voldemort says._

_Evan Rosier – for it must be him, Harry realises faintly, although the only thing he has seen of the man is a picture in an old newspaper, declaring his death – bows his head. "My Lord," he murmurs, and his voice wavers slightly._

"_No matter," Voldemort says, dangerously soft. "You know the price."_

_He faces Harry then, and Harry can feel his hands clench into fists. He will be brave, he would be brave-_

_And then the words 'Fervio sanguis' are said, and he is screaming, because his blood, it's heating up and he swears, he can feel bubbling, boiling or something-_

"_Jonathon!" he can hear someone call out, but he is writhing on the ground, wanting the pain to end, stop it, stop it, stopitstopitstopit…_

_The spell is taken off, and his ragged breathing fills the clearing, breaking through the silence that has fallen over. Voldemort smiles, raises his wand again. "This is a new one," he says, "I've been waiting to try it out."_

_He points his wand at Harry and spoke, voice cold. "Frango animum."_

_Frango – I break, Harry thinks as the spell flashes towards him. Animum – the soul, spirit or mind. I break the mind. Mind breaker. The spell hits him, and-_

_It feels like he is being torn apart, like dogs are sinking there teeth into his very being. He tries to pull it all back together, but it hurts, hurt like- hurt like-_

Harry ripped himself out of the memory, out of his mind, and staggered down, collapsing weakly on the snow. Distantly, he could feel his robes soaking through as his warming charm crumpled, but that was not important.

Those _memories_-

He winced, and shuddered, uncertain what to think. They weren't his memories, but they were too detailed to be made-up – memories that had been falsified tended to be blurred, or with obvious changes. Slughorn's, for example, while obviously fake was the typical altered memory; it was very difficult to make them feel real. Luna was the only one he knew that had ever managed something vaguely authentic.

But if they weren't fake, that meant-

He slowly pushed himself up, grimacing as he realised that his fingers were going numb in the cold snow. Clearing a space by one of the ruined walls, Harry slumped down on the dying grass, still wet from the snow he had just melted – and bugger, he was only wearing boxers under his robes. Robes, which now he thought about it, looked suspiciously like a wizard's traditional indoor ones, albeit indoor ones that had been dragged through several forests and ripped many times. Great. Just bloody great.

Okay. Thinking this through. He let his eyes slip down to the flash of the tracking spell around his wrist, traced a finger over it slowly, stroking it to reassure himself. He'd woken up – when he was supposed to be dead, because he had definitely felt something hit the back of his head, and _hard_. He'd been in something that looked like the ruins of Hogwarts, but maybe a good twenty years on from when they'd been destroyed. Alright, possibility of time travel there. He was no good at this stuff, but he was _pretty_ certain you couldn't travel into the future. Something about you couldn't go into something that didn't exist yet and… well, Harry had tuned out the rest of Hermione's lecture, frankly.

_Hermione_, he thought and his heart ached briefly. _Hermione and Ron_. They would have hated being paired together like that – hell, they'd had the most _explosive _break up Harry had ever seen in their seventh year, something about Ron trying to push Hermione and Hermione thinking she was above Ron, and they hadn't talked to each other for _months_. And then Hermione had died, killed by that bastard Malfoy Junior, and Ron had gone in on a rescue mission, not knowing she was already dead. His head had been sent back to Molly – his mother had been traumatised after that, and Arthur hadn't been much better.

No. Back on task.

So, there was the faint possibility of time travel. However, he was in someone else's body, which didn't sound much like time travel – a Jonathon? Jon? That's what he had been called in the memory. So, he could probably rule time travel out. Next thing would be the memories – they didn't seem false, and they could be remnants of this Jonathon's mind.

This just didn't make sense, he thought despondently. He was already getting a headache from having to think all this crap through, and he hadn't even broached the subject that was worrying him most – the demons, and the altered Lord Voldemort.

_It's not my business_, he told himself firmly. He'd killed his Voldemort – because he was beginning to get a feeling that this wasn't his home, or his place – and this new one was not his business. Bugger the hero complex. He sighed, stared down at the ground. He should really attempt to recast another warming charm; his fingers had long gone numb, and he was beginning to think the rest of his body would soon follow. He didn't like the idea of using the reserves from his battle magic though-

His musing was interrupted by a shout - "Jonathon!" – and Harry got to his feet and looked up despite himself to see a man striding across the ruined landscape of Hogwarts, blond hair tousled in the wind and ears and nose red from cold.

Who-?

Tensed on the balls of his feet, Harry found his hand creeping towards his wand, and he waited for the man to get into cursing range. _Don't kill him_, he thought, _you can get information out of him_, and the man almost ran across as he caught sight of Harry, stumbling over the walls. Damnit – the tracking charm. If he wasn't in his body, it wouldn't be the auror charm-

"_Heimdall_, Jon, how did you get to Hogwarts of all places?"

Nearly, nearly – there. "Petrificus totalus," he hissed, jabbing his wand-

-And realised he should have waited, because the man saw it coming and flung himself to the floor, letting it skid over his head. Damnit. There went the element of surprise. He took a few skip-steps to the side, snarled a '_Stupefy_', and then swore as it was returned his way, passing through a shield that wasn't there-

He'd become too used to fighting with people, having a Shielder to guard his attack. Not a smart thing to do, because now he couldn't fucking remember a decent shield – protego was no use against the more powerful spells, and that meant-

"_Contego,_" he said softly, spreading his wand in the right movement, feeling vaguely smug as a glowing shield emerged. There, that should hold for a while – and the man approached more warily, eyeing him.

"Jon, it's me for crying out loud!" he shouted. "Stop playing games!"

_And what_? he thought wryly, ignoring the reference to 'Jon'. Drop his shield and let a stranger come within striking distance? Like fucking hell. He prepared another spell, ignoring the aimed 'expelliarmus' coming his way – his shielding might not be perfect, but he was sure it could reflect _that_-

-His wand was tugged out of his hand, leaving his hand to spasm uselessly as the grip collapsed, and he stared in disbelief as it flew through his shield and into the man's outstretched hand. What the _fuck_? He- What-

"Contego doesn't block the minor spells. You should know that," the man said, tucking Harry's wand into a robe pocket and sounding quite smug. As he came closer, his eyes seemed hopeful for a second, scanning Harry's face, looking for something, but Harry wasn't quite sure what – and then the hope flickered out again.

"It's Alex, Jon," the man- Alex said in a defeated tone, and sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Almost thought you were back to normal there, 'specially when you tried to attack me. We felt a huge burst a magic from here and-" A pause, and he shook his head. Forcing a smile onto his face, Alex put a hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry barely kept from trying to punch him, suddenly all-too aware that this Alex was a good few inches taller than him, and easily broader across the shoulders. "Never mind, kiddo. Dad went insane searching for you – I don't know how you get to these places, even with the tracking charm we placed on you. You must be fucking _freezing _– and where are your shoes?"

Oh bugger. Jon? Alex? _Dad_? From the sounds of it, the guy who had his wand seemed to think he was- was the person from those memories. And he was here, in a place he didn't really recognise anymore, with some patched-up memories of some kid who was apparently completely mental, with someone who probably wouldn't be too happy if Harry decided to enlighten him that he was, in fact, not this 'Jon', but instead a twenty year old Harry Potter from an apparently different world, who just happened to displace his brother's soul – all by complete accident. And, uh, the part when he'd tried to attack this 'Alex'? Pure mistake. No harm done right? So, they could just go their separate ways, and there was no chance of this working, _bugger_.

Someone up there was laughing at him.

And god_damnit_, it had started snowing again.

* * *

**Nithog **– serpent who resides in hell, chewing on Yggdrasil.

**Yggdrasil **– the world tree

**Elivagar **– eleven rivers of ice

**Muspelheim **– home of the fire giants; responsible for melting the ice of the Elivagar.

**Valkyrie **– warrior women who escort those who died in battle to Valhalla.

**Valhalla **– heaven for warriors who died in battle

**Heimdall **– god of light and protection; watchman of the gods.


	3. He Took a Road not Taken

**Summary: **A suicide mission manages to win the war for a twenty-year-old Harry Potter, even if he _does_ die in the attempt. For some reason though, he doesn't seem as dead as he should be – and the world he's woken up in has more than enough of its own problems to deal with.

**Warnings: **Violence, excessive amounts of bad language, abuse of the Latin language and overuse of OCs.

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognise isn't mine. Anything you _don't_ is mine. On that note – I'm willing to let you use any of my characters if you ask and have back stories for quite a few, if anyone's bored and looking to write anything about an OC. -charming smile-

**Author's Note: **Still looking for a beta. Reviews and/or constructive criticism is much appreciated. Thanks to SlythsRule, Mara202, Akuma-river and Lily for reviewing.

**Chapter Two: He Took a Road Not Taken**

_Dedicated to SlythsRule as the first reviewer. : )_

Harry eyed Alex with some wariness, wishing the man would give him his wand back – but there wasn't really much of a chance of that, having attacked him and all. They were sitting down in a room that Harry found he vaguely recognised, from memories that weren't his. Sighing, he curled up into a foetal position on the sofa – because damnit, he was cold. The man seemed to have some kind of _fondness_ for freezing his arse off, because his quarters were no warmer than it was outside. Normally, Harry wouldn't take such a defenceless position – c'mon, it was like asking to be made a victim – but at the moment, he wasn't sure if it was possible for him to care less. He was too tired at the moment.

Alex looked up to meet his eyes, and smiled faintly, before returning to prodding what looked like a small muggle radio with his wand. There was a burst of static, and a man's voice came over irritably.

"Evan Rosier, Vidar Squadron, if this isn't important then go shove it up your arse-"

"Dad, it's me," Alex interrupted. "I found Jon."

There was a pause, and then Evan Rosier spoke again, obviously startled. "He was at Hogwarts then?"

"Yeah, turned out the tracking charm wasn't malfunctioning," Alex sighed. "No idea how he got there, and he isn't telling."

"Any idea about the burst of magic?" Evan asked, his voice business-like.

"None," Alex said, shaking his head as if Evan could see him. "The residue had faded by the time I got there, and Jon was standing there freezing-"

"He's safe?" Concern in his voice. Harry scowled slightly, not liking that.

"Yeah, we're back in my quarters. You coming back, or you got other duties?"

"We've got a suspect here. It shouldn't take long to find out what he knows though," Harry could almost hear the shrug in Evan's voice. "I'll be back before midnight. You know the password for my quarters to put Jon to bed."

Harry grimaced. 'Put Jon to bed'. Sounded like he- no, Jonathon- oh bugger this, whoever he currently was, was a fucking two-year-old. Alex grimaced, obviously coming to the same conclusion, but when he spoke, it was a cheerful, "Will do."

The radio crackled off, and they both turned to look at each other, something guarded in Alex's stare. Harry met it, trying to look inquisitive – he had a feeling it didn't really work, but whatever Alex was looking for, he didn't find. Instead, he scowled faintly, dropped his head to look at the ground, and Harry just barely kept from smirking triumphantly.

Silence for a few moments, broken only by a yawn from Harry that felt like it was distorting his whole face. Alex laughed softly, and got up to move closer, looked slightly upset when Harry shied from his touch. _I am not a bloody pet dog_ he thought furiously, when Alex sat down beside him, and started brushing his hair back from his face.

"You are such a mess, Jon," he sighed, taking time to pull a twig out of the blond hair. "Honestly, how do you always do this?"

_Sheer talent_, Harry thought moodily, resisting another yawn.

"And Hogwarts? How in all the worlds did you get to Hogwarts of all places?"

_Magic. _

"Seriously, Jon, you'll give me a heart attack before I reach twenty one. Dad's been frantic over the past few days."

_He sounds like Hermione, _Harry thought, and felt his eyes drift half-shut, reassured by this reminder of his friend. Beside him, Alex shifted slightly, cushioning Harry's head with his shoulder, and letting his murmuring slowly-

Just fade-

Away.

* * *

"I'm telling you sir, she didn't know a bloody _thing_ about the rebel's precious 'Order'. We told that fucking demon that, and he wouldn't believe us. Seriously, we'd put her through everything. We'd kept her sleepless for a few days, underfed, confused, and then used veritiserum. We phrased the questions so they were yes or no. There wasn't any room for fucking untruths-" 

"Calm down, Blaise," a voice said, and Harry stirred slightly, making sure he kept his eyes closed as he ran through possible situations. He was in an unfamiliar area, persons unknown in the vicinity, and-

Oh shit. The events of the previous day came rushing in, and Harry resisted the temptation to hit himself. Falling asleep in front of an unknown subject? Moody would have _killed_ him for that. Sure, he'd been tired and wandless – another thing Moody would have killed him for – but that was no excuse. He should have-

Should have-

Ah, fuckit. He couldn't have done anything really. The only course he could really think of was to gain information if he could, and then evaluate the situation from there.

"Sorry, sir," someone – Zabini's voice, strange – said, not sounding in the least bit apologetic. Sounded sort of younger, without the husky quality it had gained after he'd been tortured. Fair enough. Maybe he hadn't been tortured here. It'd sort of make sense.

"You told the demon that you needed to interrogate the subject on different matters?" Evan said. Yes, Harry decided, it was Evan Rosier. He recognized the voice from last night, over the radio.

"Yes, sir," Blaise said, exasperated. "Is your memory going or something? I _told _you that-"

"Needed it for the report, Blaise," Evan said cheerfully, and Harry heard the scratch of a quill on parchment. "And are you _sure_ that you mentioned the subject needed to be able to speak when you interrogated her?"

Harry could almost hear Blaise scowl. "It's slightly hard to interrogate someone when they can't speak, _sir_."

"And the subject was most definitely unable to answer your questions once the demon had finished with-"

"Sir!" Blaise snapped. "Can you take this fucking seriously for once in your life? We thought she was one of the research and development specialists – do you know how much information-?"

Evan sighed, put his quill down. "Blaise, I have to ask these questions. You _know_ that. The Dark Lord doesn't like his precious demons being criticised, and if I haven't covered all aspects of the report, then I am completely and utterly screwed. Alright?"

A mumbled affirmative.

"Now, was she able to answer questions once the demon had…" Pause. "Talked to her."

"No, sir," Blaise was sullen, and Harry bit back a grin at that. "Being flayed alive and then crucified does have a tendency to limit a person's speaking ability. Sir."

Harry cracked his eyes open, just enough to see Evan nodding faintly, and picking up his quill to write something down. Slightly stocky build, same blond hair as- as his body had, Harry couldn't make out his eye colour from here, but he suspected it would be the same. A sort of grey, wasn't it?

"Nott was there, sir," Blaise said suddenly, and Harry moved his head slightly to fit Blaise in his line of vision, biting back a wince as his neck seemed to creak impossibly loudly. Ah, there. Same Blaise as he knew, just lacking a few scars. Maybe two years younger, which was strange. _Don't take things for granted_, he told himself sternly, and then quirked a faint grin as his Moody-voice screamed '_Constant Vigilance_!' inside his head, with a sense of smugness.

"Alethea was there?" Evan asked, sounding surprised. "I thought she was being sent to Scotland to negotiate with Greyback again."

"She was sent back. Mini-Malfoy made some huge faux-pas, and offended the whole werewolf community. They decided a tactical retreat was in order." His shoulders went up in a shrug. "She tried to wave rank in the demon's face, but you know they only listen to the Inner Circle, and even then only half the time."

"Damn," Evan said, making a face, before adding on in a would-be casual voice, "She say when she'd be back?"

"Few days," Blaise said smugly. "And Bellatrix is outside. Should I send her in?"

Evan growled slightly but nodded, but Harry didn't really notice, instead feeling the blood in his veins freeze. Bellatrix Lestrange. He'd killed her, he'd fucking killed her, opened up her bloody skull and liquefied her brain. She couldn't be alive, nono_no_, this wasn't fucking possible.

"You wanted a report, Evan?" Bellatrix's voice all but fucking purred, and Harry shuddered.

"Can it, Black," Evan said, dislike clear in his voice. "And before you ask, Jon is not awake, and no, there is no need for you to baby-sit."

"But sir, it's no problem," Bellatrix said, her voice dripping with innocence. "He's such a sweet boy."

"Which is why, when Alex took him for a check-up, he still had traces of the blood boiling curse on him?" Evan said, his voice turning icy. "That's your speciality Black, and like it or not, Jonathon is still my son. Touch him again and you will regret it. Now give me your Thor-damned report and get out."

"I wouldn't have hurt him, sir," Bellatrix said, her voice turning sulky. "He didn't mind. It's not like he actually _felt _it or anything."

"And that's why his voice was hoarse from screaming. I see."

Harry shivered back into the couch, wishing he had his wand, his hand twitching almost desperately. She'd- When he'd been caught by- It had fucking hurt, but- He'd killed her, he'd fucking killed her and now she was alive. _Calm down. _He took a shaking breath, gritted his teeth and tried to keep still. _Calm down. Kill her later_. Yeah, he thought. Kill her later. He'd destroyed her before, and it wouldn't be too hard to do it again – make it more painful this time. He had to keep his mouth from turning up in a disturbingly sadistic smile, but the idea stopped his body's involuntary shuddering, and distracted him with more pleasant matters.

"- The London resistance is planning an attack on Modi Squadron barracks, but we've got Lestrange keeping an eye on them, sir."

Harry forced his attention back to the two adults, grimacing faintly at the sight of Bellatrix all-but draping herself across Evan, the latter of whom had a tense look of distaste plastered on his face.

"You've done well," Evan said, sounding as if the words were being dragged out of him by hooks. "Make sure you rotate with Rodolphus, but the four of you are off-duty for the next week. Dismissed."

Bellatrix heaved a sigh, artfully pushing her chest forward, and pouting as Evan very deliberately looked nowhere near her. Still pouting, she left, and Harry found himself letting out a soft sigh of relief – and Evan looked around and down at him, his expression softening slightly. He didn't, Harry noted with some unease, look at all surprised.

"You woke up when she came in, didn't you?" he asked, and Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position, clumsy in overestimating his reach and weight. He'd have to get adjusted to this body quickly – it was too much of a danger otherwise. After a brief consideration of whether he should let Evan know how long he'd really been awake, he nodded.

"Fuck," Evan murmured softly, and dropped down beside him. "I would have moved you into your room, but Alethea's potions are set up there," he said apologetically. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again." He wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder, and Harry tensed reflexively.

Evan felt the tensing, Harry was sure of it, but he ignored it, pulling him in closer and running a hand through his hair. What the hell was it with people and his hair?

"You need to have a wash," Evan said, frowning. "I could call Blaise back here to help you."

Harry nearly choked. Help him? Fucking hell, no. This was going way too far. He was not having someone help him wash; he'd had enough embarrassment when Ginny had had to do that after he'd manage to half-paralyse himself.

"Or…" Evan pushed back, and Harry looked up to see a grin widening on his face. I could just-"

He brought his wand out, and Harry shoved himself backwards, flailing off the sofa and onto the floor. React, where was the nearest weapon, aim for the table for cover-

"_Effundo aquam._"

-Water splashed down on him, soaking him through, and Harry choked and spluttered, drenched, with a small puddle forming around him. Oh. Well, at least he hadn't been attacked.

Lifting an arm, he prodded at the sleeve morosely, grimacing at the small squelching sound it made as it separated from his skin. Joy. He was too busy inspecting himself with some incredulous annoyance to notice Evan raise his wand again, and mutter a soft, '_Scourgify_', letting the dirt slide off with the water, and the grease track itself out, leaving him clean again.

Then, '_sicco_' which left him feeling as if the water had been sucked off him in by a vacuum, and Harry stared at Evan, his nose wrinkled in distaste. Next time, he thought, he'd go for a bloody bath. At least he was clean though; the dirt had been feeling as though it were ingrained on his skin.

A flick of Evan's wand – Harry wondered if there'd be a way to deprive the man of that, because he was not happy in the slightest about being manhandled by magic – and his clothes changed, into a warm jumper and slacks, a robe over the top of them. Evan chuckled at Harry's glare, ruffling his hair again, and then pushed himself slightly.

"Go on with you. You can find your way to the Duelling Arena, right?" His eyes were fixed on Harry's, and Harry found himself reminded of the way Neville had had to deal with Luna after It had happened. "Alex is in the Duelling Arena. Okay? The Duelling Arena."

_Yeah, yeah, the Duelling Arena._ Harry scowled, turning to leave, and behind him Evan chuckled. "Oh, and here's your wand. Don't attack anyone, alright?"

Harry turned quickly and half-snatched the blackwood wand out of Evan's hand, relief obvious in his posture. Wand. Armed. Now he felt twice as secure as before – although he hadn't exactly felt secure before, but that was besides the point – as he shoved it up his sleeve, keeping wary eyes on Evan, who seemed more amused by the display than anything, grinning as he moved away.

There. Now, where the hell was this so-called 'Duelling Arena'?

* * *

"You're going the wrong way, you know." 

Harry half-turned, his wand sliding into his hand as he tried to assess the new threat. Blonde hair, wide eyes, female, around eighteen – he started as he saw Luna stare at him, her head half-cocked.

"I suppose you don't know at that," she said, and her voice was as light and as airy as ever, but with a hint of sanity that it had been- lacking recently. "Harry, from Henry, from Heimrich. Home Ruler. But you've never wanted to rule, have you?"

Okay, scratch the sanity part.

Harry began to shrug and move away, before it clicked. He froze. "Harry?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light and mildly bewildered, wincing slightly at the hoarse quality. Clearing his throat, he kept his eyes on Luna. She wouldn't betray him, would she? And if she did, it was hardly as if anyone would believe her, really. She still looked mental.

"Of course," Luna said, blinking blue eyes. "You aren't Jonathon. Who else would you be?"

"I-" Harry began, and frowned. "You've always confused me," he muttered to himself with a grumble, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"I know," Luna smiled, carefree. "But it's not all bad, Harry. Jonathon wasn't happy here, and you weren't happy there. It's not like it's the end for either of you."

What the-?

Never mind, he decided frankly. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, and there were more important issues to deal with.

"What has Voldemort done to himself?" he asked, his voice changing to brisk command, and Luna looked vague.

"He took a road not taken." She shrugged softly. "It is not my place to say more."

"And-" Harry began, but Luna interrupted him, holding up a hand.

"Munin arrives for you," she said, pointing behind him. Harry swivelled, saw nothing. Narrowing his eyes slightly, his hand crept to his wand, trying to assess any potential threat, but-

No. Still nothing.

He turned back to Luna, catching a flash of black in the corner of his eye as he did so, and whipped backwards so fast he almost lost his balance. "What's going on, Luna?" he growled, and she looked at him.

"He watches you for now, but he will reveal himself in time. You are the one he comes for, after all." She took a few steps away, and then called back over her shoulder-

"And the Duelling Arena's left and then the second right. It would be best if you kept from getting lost."

Goddamn it, she was as loony as fucking ever. He glanced backwards in paranoia, and squared his shoulders. _Don't do a Moody_.

* * *

"_Stupefy!_" Alex roared, sending a flash of red light towards Blaise, the spell splashing over a hurried shield. He didn't give Blaise much time to react though, following up with, "_Destruo!_" 

Harry groaned softly to himself, slumped down in one of the seats in the arena as he watched the two duel. He had lost to _that_? Okay, so maybe Alex was alright – half-decent even, but Harry was still a hell of a lot better. He winced as Blaise threw himself clumsily to the ground – it seemed he wasn't up to his counterpart's standard.

The temptation to mutter an earthquake charm and see how they reacted was almost overwhelming, and Harry clenched his wand hand to keep himself from trying it out. So maybe he wanted to pay Alex back for beating him – for beating him and then not even being an amazing dueller. It was fucking embarrassing.

It wasn't _exactly _his fault he'd lost though. He had just died, woken up in someone else's body, without his own wand, had expended a lot of power on charms and shit and wasn't used to fighting on his own. He'd become to dependant on having a Shielder – and with a shake of his head, Harry decided that was going to have to change.

He blinked slightly as an 'incendo' was sent flying out over the Arena seats, and sighed faintly. This could take a while.

Looking around, Harry did have to give whoever made this place credit though – it was a good deal better than anything the Room of Requirement had come up with, or any of the rooms in Azkaban. A space-altering charm had been cast, and then a Roman-style arena built in, sort of like the Colosseum; a circular area in the middle with sand covering the ground and seats installed on varying levels around it. It would, however, been a good deal more intelligent to cast an absorption shield over the fighting grounds so the spectators – Harry looked up to see a severing charm fly away over the seats – didn't get hurt. Spice of life though, he supposed. Added a bit more entertainment for watchers.

There was a resounding explosion, and Harry scrambled to his feet to peer over at the duellers. Ah, Alex had won then – Blaise was sprawled on the ground unconsciously, and the blond man had, even from twenty metres away, a decidedly smug look on his face.

Jumping over the small drop dividing the seats and the arena, Harry dropped onto the sand and moved over to where Alex stood, looking down at Blaise.

"He's going to be pissed that he lost again," Alex said cheerfully. Waving his wand, he said an almost grandiose 'ennervate', and Blaise let out a moan of pain as he sat up.

"Not _again_," Blaise muttered. "Same spell?"

"Same spell," Alex said, his grin widening. Harry watched the interaction with a raised eyebrow. So, Blaise and Alex were reasonably good friends – that would be something to remember. Alex was Evan's son, Evan seemed to be the leader of this 'Vidar Squadron', but still answered to Lord Voldemort and the so-called 'Inner Circle'. Demons – well, he had no fucking idea where they fitted into the equation. Still.

"Damnit, Alex-" Blaise began, but both cut off their conversation as there was a crackle from one of Alex's pockets. Grumbling slightly, the man dug in and pulled out a walkie-talkie, flicking a switch with casual ease.

"Alex Rosier reporting," he said in a curiously blank voice, and Harry tried to look casual as he listened to the muffled voice coming out of the speaker.

"Alex, you're needed in the conference room," someone said, excitement clear in their tone, and Harry couldn't recognise the voice. Alex relaxed slightly, quirked an eyebrow at Blaise.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"James Potter's been captured!"

Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing in shock.


	4. To Dream a Dream

**Summary: **A suicide mission manages to win the war for a twenty-year-old Harry Potter, even if he _does_ die in the attempt. For some reason though, he doesn't seem as dead as he should be – and the world he's woken up in has more than enough of its own problems to deal with.

**Warnings: **Violence, excessive amounts of bad language, abuse of the Latin language and overuse of OCs.

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognise isn't mine. Anything you _don't_ is mine.

**Author's Note: **Still looking for a beta. Reviews and/or constructive criticism is much appreciated. Thanks to all people who reviewed – it was really appreciated. Sorry this was a long time in coming and is really, really quite short – but I promise the next chapter won't take so long. –sheepish–

**Chapter Three: To Dream a Dream**

_Dedicated to Anave Lipad, as first reviewer. : )_

_Harry dreamt._

At first, there is only vision.

Two people stand in front of a grove, conversing in low voices. One, a male, is short and slender, dark blond hair framing a delicate face, and a sword that seems almost absurdly large for his frame slung over his back. He gazes into the forest, and sighs faintly, his blue eyes thoughtful, before he turns to stare straight at his companion.

She meets his gaze without a flinch, and for a second the juxtaposition between the two is emphasised in the dimming light of the dusk. She is a big woman, of that there is no doubt, her shoulders broad, and head and shoulders above the man; large, but not abnormally so. Her white-blond hair seems to glow in the braid she has tied it back into, and she chuckles at something the man says, one hand resting on the large hammer at her waist.

Suddenly, there is sound.

The soft swish of lake waters comes rushing in; the rustling of leaves in a faint breeze and the chirping of birds in the distance. The man's voice is a light tenor, confident in his words, but there is something that seems to prefer to step back in him; something that prefers the shadows.

"I do not think that wise," he says, but there is a wistful note in his voice. "You know how _he_ is about honour, and we cannot risk offending him at this moment."

The woman laughs. "You are too cautious, Rick," she says in a dismissive tone. "If this succeeds, we will push Aileen back from the border, and then we should have some breathing space at last. And after all, what _he_ does not know, he cannot condemn."

"He will find out," 'Rick' says, shaking his head. "And we cannot be certain it would work. It is all on chance, my love, and should we lose even one of our own at this point…"

"Then he will travel to Valhalla, knowing he fought to free our world from these Hel-damned demons. Come, you know I am right. It is not fair to leave the muggles to deal with those beasts, nor wise to leave the clan wizards to lead their own defences. You know that neither magic, nor the muggle weapons will harm our enemies." She looks at him, and he shifts slightly, reaches a hand out to take hers.

"Aye, I know too well," he says, and there is pain obvious. The woman flinches, as if knowing that she has said something unwelcome, and places a large arm protectively around him. He pauses, and stiffens his shoulders. "If only our hawk could produce more of these," he murmurs, and one hand reaches instinctively to touch the hilt of the sword slung over his back, touch the design engraved on it.

"He cannot though, and we must work with what we have. This ambush is the only advantage we can gain," the woman says urgently, and a frown furrows into the man's forehead.

"But by taking the ambush, we would be betraying some of our closest allies," he protests mildly, although it is clear his heart is not in it. "And by doing that, we would be betraying _him_ as well. To hall-burn is not-"

The sound fades away again, and slowly the vision darkens until there is only blackness left; a deep, echoing void. Something speaks, but yet- does not, the words not words but piercing, aching thoughts that penetrate into his mind.

**Wake up.**

_Harry woke, his breath coming in shaking pants as he sat up and listened to his heart racing. What-?_

_Slowly, taking deep breaths, he lay back, sinking into the soft mattress, and tried to let sleep take him. And after a while, it did._


End file.
